


Wasteland, Baby.

by demitri



Series: The wretched and divine [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Calix gets stabbed, F/M, Inspired by a Hozier Song, Romance, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Title from a Hozier Song, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 12:55:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21271397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demitri/pseuds/demitri
Summary: “Hello baby.”The call didn’t start of any different really, the same mumbled greeting, the same small twitch of a smile. The words softly spoken with just the hint of an accent. Normal. Familiar. Routine.Just this time, Cal was trying to stop the flow of blood leaking from his body and Winnie didn’t know that.





	Wasteland, Baby.

**Author's Note:**

> So Uhm, hey! Yes, I do write heterosexual shit sometimes, but not often. But here *pushes this towards you* enjoy it. I enjoyed writing this and it’s been said to make people cry? Maybe my friends were overreacting. Anyway, here! I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> \- Demon.
> 
> (The titles from ‘wasteland, baby by hozier’)

“Hello baby.”

The call didn’t start of any different really, the same mumbled greeting, the same small twitch of a smile. The words softly spoken with just the hint of an accent. Normal. Familiar.  _ Routine. _

Just this time, Cal was trying to stop the flow of blood leaking from his body and Winnie didn’t know that.

It tinged it with just a slight bit of hurt. Just enough to sadden him more than he already was. Not enough to stop him from smiling through the pain.

There had been a point in his life where he had doubted he would make it to 30. It saddened him to think that little 19 year old Calix 蔡, ( _ CalixTsai)  _ had been correct, really. Well. Sort of. He was 27. 

Yes, he’d lived to see his nieces and nephews born. To see his Father get better and his Mama learn to fear him. He’d lived to show people that he was no longer frail and small and weak and a  _ baby.  _ He’d lived to show his bullies that he was no longer a victim. He’d lived enough to show everyone that they were wrong to doubt him and his strength. He’d lived to show that he had breath in his lungs and he could turn that into  _ fire  _ if he wanted to.

But, he hadn’t lived to have kids, he hadn’t lived long enough to get to 30, he hadn’t lived long enough to show 19 year old Calix that he was wrong and damn, that hurt. But he couldn’t doubt that deep down, 19 year old him had been smart. He’d gotten 27 year old Calix used to suffering and that? That had saved his life on multiple occasions. Maybe not on this occasion. But in the past? Yes.  _ God,  _ it was a miracle he had even made it to 27.

Broken little baby birds were meant to die the moment they’d been pushed out of the next. But by some miracle he had survived, and he’d kept on surviving. And he’d lived and he’d kept on living. And now? It was time for death. It was time for the clock to stop ticking, and the stage to go still and the performers to stop, just this time there would be no standing ovation because he was all alone,only the crows and shadows for company.

Elowen ‘Winnie’ Wilson had taken one look at him and decided that yes,he was just a broken, baby bird and yes, maybe he was destined to fall and die. And she didn’t have to take him in but she  _ had,  _ and they’d spent 8 years together, living and loving like real people should.

But that all came to an end here. In this dirty alleyway, his wallet gone and multiple stab wounds slowly wringing him dry of any blood he possessed. 

Look. Cal wasn’t stupid, he knew how long it took for an ambulance to get there, he knew that soon he would stop breathing (and god, did that thought terrify him) he knew that all of this would cease to exist soon. That was ok (he’d come to terms with his death a long time ago) but she hadn’t.

Winnie Wilson didn’t know that he was going to die and he had to keep it that way for as long as his failing body could. He didn’t want her to worry, not while she was there and he was here. He didn’t want her to cry. Not yet. She had to save those tears for later, not in her ( _ their)  _ living room where it would be easier to break down and break herself. For later. When she had someone to hold her.

Dying, dying wasn’t easy. It was fucking  _ terrifying _ , but he had to be calm. For her. She would be able to sense he was scared over the phone and he didn’t want that. He wanted her to finish her pasta and feed the cats and water the plants and sing to herself as she sketched in her chair. He wanted her to know he wasn’t coming home tonight but not that he was  _ dying. _

Oh. There it was. The feeling. Huh. It hurt. It hurt more than the stab wounds but not as much as the thought of losing her. They’d only just got married a year ago and now he was splayed out here, his back against the wall, choking because he couldn’t breathe well.

“...Cal?” The voice asked, deep in his ear. She had the most wonderful voice. Smooth like coffee and dark as the soil beneath his feet. Just as holy, as well. Everything about her screamed holy, really. From her dark skin to her kind eyes to the way she seemed to glow when the watery sunshine hit her just right, to every little tattoo on her body sun kissed body. To the way she kissed him hello and goodbye. To the way she would never be able to do that again. “Calico kitty? Are you there? I love you.” She said, a sense of urgency in those words. She liked to rush them out, never unmindful, but she liked to  _ rush.  _ That was okay, Hm, more time for him.

“I’m just-“ he struggled to force out the words, choking on nothing. “I just  _ love you,”  _ He said, voice soft from effort. “I love you, very,  _ very  _ much, Winnie. I don’t want you to forget that, okay?”

The line was silent for a while before. “I love you much more.” The words slightly confused, but genuine. “So so much more than you think, Mister.”

Cal laughed, before it quickly dissolved into coughs. “No I Love you more Elowen. Love with a capital L baby-“

“No no, I love you more. So much more, I even made extra pasta for when you come home. It’s got meatballs you like and your favourite sauce and-“

“I don’t think I’m coming home tonight, Tiger.” He said. He couldn’t bear to hear her words. “I’m in a sticky situation and-“ he looked down at the blood on his hands, shaking. Always shaking. “-I don’t think I’m coming  _ home.” _

He broke on that word, home, tears streaming down his face as he pressed the phone into his shoulder in an attempt to muffle the words. “Can you, can you speak to me please? Say anything.” 

The black spots were dancing in his vision now, as slow and steady as the way her hips swayed in the early morning, just like her curls bounced and her head bopped to the tune of whatever song he was playing that morning; fixing eggs and bacon and bittersweet coffee as she sang with that deep voice of hers, trying to nudge him awake. It was her fault he was sleepy anyway, keeping him up all night dancing in the living room, watching shitty shows and drinking shitty alcohol and being loud but everyone was loud so it was fine, Hm?

“Cal what’s going on?” She asked, voice hard. She was a tough woman. A strong woman. Someone kids looked up to. He could hear the soft miaows in the background, the sound of the stove. The sway and hum of the electric fan. Oftheir houseplants. The gentle  _ song  _ of the love they had built around them. In their home. “Is something wrong?”

“No no Baby, nothing’s wrong,” he lied, “You worry too much, I just want you to talk to me, sing for me-“ he paused. "That wasteland baby, you know that, right? You were in love with it.”

There was a pause. “Sorry, I nodded. I forgot I couldn’t see you,” she laughed, snorting a bit before dying down. "And Yeah, sure, for however long you want baby."

The thing was that Calix was going to want her forever. For however long she allowed him to want him. Which wouldn't be a long time from now, really, but he liked to think that when he died and rotted wherever he was (because he was going to rot, that was a definite) he could continue wanting her. He hoped they wouldn't wipe every good memory of her, have something to keep him desperate, y'know? So that when the clock turned and he was back to suffering like the skinny 19 year old he had been, he could at least think of her soft curves and curly hair and soft clothes and strong scent and deep voice, and the way she would dance for him. 

The way she  _ had  _ danced for him.

" _ All the fear and the fire _

_ Of the end of the world _

_ Happens each time a boy falls in love with a girl _

_ Happens grace _

_ Happens sweet _

_ Happily, I'm unfazed here, too." _

She sounded too far away, voice hazy in his mind as he listened to the soft slow way she sang, so unlike her usually. Yes, she was determined, yes she knew when to stop down, but his darling had never been slow, she had never been soft.

She'd always been whiskey strong, roller-coaster fast, so fast you would vomit if you didn't have a strong stomach. Made even the strongest people weak in the knees and dizzy. 

She was the protector really. She was the hothead. He was just her kitten who would curl up next to her and listen to her talk about numbers, doodle little tattoo designs and try and be everything she was meant to be, his face smushed into her hip as he mumbled, wet and messy and so utterly  _ them. _

(It was funny how dying, here, seemed so utterly them as well.)

“ _ Wasteland baby, _

_ I’m in love, I’m in love with you.” _

He breathed a shuddering sigh, phone grasped in his hand as he shook, blood splattering on the screen.  _ I’m in love with you. _

_ “All the things yet to come are the things that have passed _

_ Like the old enough hands, like the breaking of glass _

_ Like the bonfire that burns, in worth, in a fight felt too. _

_ Wasteland baby _

_ I’m in love I’m in love with you.” _

Cal bought his hands to his lips, stained them red with blood, painted it over his face as he felt for the small tattoo she had given him. A lil brown heart, looked just like a beauty spot. She had one as well, just under her hip in black, something soft and safe for them. Tattooed in by the other, love pressed so far deep into it it ran through their bones.

He wondered if the mortician would cover it up with makeup or if Winnie would make sure it showed. He wondered who would come to his funeral.  _ His lover, his siblings, his grandmama, his nephews and nieces, his Father.  _ He didn’t want those people to see his cold body in a suit, didn’t want them to see him pale and lifeless.

He wanted them to know he had loved them so much. That he’d cherished them even behind his vicious smiles and cutting words. He wanted them to know he had not turned out like Mama had said he would, that he wasn’t a degenerate or a deviant or a scammer or druggie or homeless person. He wanted them to know he had grown to be Calix, he wanted them to  _ think  _ that calix had been a good man. He didn’t want them to live with only bad memories of him, not when he had so many good memories of them.

He wanted to live to convince them, he wanted to  _ live. _

That’s when the tears started to fall really, great hulking silent things bigger than any problem he had ever faced. Salt mixed with iron dripping onto his tongue, running into his mouth, making him gasp out little  _ uh, uh _ sounds, wounded, damaged. Like a trapped animal. Like an animal that knew it was going to die and wanted to use its last breaths to convey just how much  _ guilt  _ was stored in them. A mother telling their child to run. A lover saying their last goodbye.

“ _ And I love too _

_ That love soon might end _

_ And be known in its aching _

_ Shown in the shaking _

_ Lately of my wasteland, baby _

_ Be still, my indelible friend _

_ You are unbreaking _

_ Though quaking _

_ Though crazy _

_ That's wasteland, baby.” _

Her voice was tender now, softer, the swish and miaows in the background a beat for her to play by, not a single care in the world and god, he loved her like this, he wanted her to live like that, really, didn’t want her to feel as though her brown hands were stained bloody as well. He didn’t want her to feel guilty.

“Im sorry,” he mumbled, words not even loud enough for himself to hear, the black spots clouding his vision.” _ I’m sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, baby please-“  _ his mouth worked relentlessly though no sound came out, just empty creaking noises. The beast in his gut was dying, starved of energy. The words in his mind stayed there, he didn’t even have the energy to speak them.

Oh god. So this was what dying felt like.

“ _ And the stance of the sea _

_ And the absence of green _

_ Are the death of all things that I've seen and unseen _

_ Are men but the start of all things that are left to do?”  _ She always broke a little on that line, and so did he. Maybe it was the raw emotion, maybe it was the way the rain and blood mingled together to create a colour that he would have called holy if it had existed outside of his white shirt. But this? This was true ruin. His own personal fall of Icarus. His own crown of thorns.

“ _ Wasteland baby-“  _ she started, voice strong. His own was weak it really was, and his eyes were closing.

“ _ I’m in love, I’m in love with you-“  _ he managed, eyes falling shut, the phone slipping out of his grip. The end was soft and sweet, song soft, he would have called it painless if it handy felt like his heart was being forged out of his chest. 

The end, it seemed, hurt more when you had something to lose, something worth living for. The will and the way and the hope and the glory carved into your body.

The end of the story always seemed to come when you had gotten warm with it, when you had grown used to the characters quirks and jerks and weird traits. When things no longer surprised you. It would end, sudden, a  _ snick  _ in the darkness of a room. Silent. Unnoticeable to most. At first, unnoticeable to him.

But he understood now. He understood why the fireplace burned out just a little too early, why the piano always ended on a hanging note. Why there was always a little left of the drink, of the wetness at least, in the glass. He understood, he really did.

Life was a series of unfinished sentences, of ellipses, of unwritten, untapped, unthought of clauses hat you’re going to hope fit snugly together. Like writing without reading before hand. Like taking a shit without aiming. Like praying and hoping your prayers would be answered, (sometimes he wished he still believed in god). A series of chances. A long list of things left up to fate. A long line of tragedies and happy times and emotions boiling down to one moment.

Death. Beginning and end and every moment in between. Just as clear against the wall as life. Just as vibrant. ( _ Blood stained really badly.) _

To the masses he was just another dead body. To himself, he was just another dead body. To his loved ones? He’d been Calix Tsai, the first and the last. The winner, the loser. The leaver. The runaway boy. The sad boy, too skinny boy, just a little too dark boy. Loved a little too much boy,  _ “god you can never give up,”  _ boy. Boy. Boy. Boy boy. Alive and dead.

He’d been the most and the least. He’d had it all and he’d had the least. He’d had  _ her,  _ for a short time, he had the  _ world. _

_ “That’s it.” _


End file.
